ThreeThirtyTwo
by seditionary
Summary: Stately Wayne Manor harbors a ghost, and Alfred takes it upon himself to find someone to get rid of it. Slash, gore, supernatural goings-on.


**A/N: **Hello! This was written for the Halloween Anonymous prompt at Live Journal. It is AU, but loosely post-Batman Begins, pre-TDK; Wayne Manor has not been destroyed. There is slash and a ghost and a bit of gore. Please review, please!

**Disclaimer:** Batman/Joker are property of Warner Bros. and DC Comics and others. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I make no money from this, it's just for fun.

*****

It was 3:32 a.m.

Three thirty-two in the morning, for the fifth night in a row, and Bruce Wayne didn't need this.

He got little enough sleep as it was, what with his "night-time adventures," as Alfred referred to Batman's patrols, and the stress of living two lives. He certainly didn't need to be spontaneously awakened at this hour, night after night, for no reason at all.

The first night, he'd thought nothing of it.

The second, he'd been so bleary with sleep that the coincidence of the clock's orange glow showing the exact same hour and minute as the night before failed to impress him.

The third night, he thought it was odd.

"Alfred, do we have some new gadget in the house?" he asked the following morning.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"You know, do we have a new washer/dryer, or security system or something?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir."

"Hmm."

"Something wrong?"

"I've been waking up at 3:32 in the morning, on the dot, for the last three nights. I wonder if there's an alarm going off somewhere in the house at that hour?"

"No, I don't believe so. Perhaps they've changed the flight path at Gotham International."

Bruce brightened. "Yeah! That could be it. Would you look into that?"

"Of course."

But, there were no planes scheduled to cross the airspace over Wayne Manor at three thirty-two in the morning.

By the fifth morning, the aggravation brought Bruce out of his bed, sending him to prowl around the manor, listening, listening. But he could detect no unusual noises, no machinery or alarm clocks set incorrectly anywhere. He sat in a chair downstairs to ponder the situation and a movement near the window startled him. The curtain fluttered down, as if someone had crawled out from under it.

Bruce sprang to his feet and checked the area--the window was shut and locked, but there was a chilly spot about three feet away from it. Bruce shivered and was irritated by the creepy feeling that came over him. There was no reason for it; clearly he was not thinking straight due to lack of sleep. Shaking his head, he headed back to bed.

He had to get some rest.

By the seventh night, Bruce was willing to admit that he was crazy. Sleep deprivation did that, he supposed. But it wasn't just the waking up at three thirty-two; other things had begun to happen, things that made no sense.

Like, strange noises. Voices, sometimes. The feel of a touch on his face or arm, a wisp of wind coming out of nowhere in a closed room. At first, Bruce shrugged it all off. But the night he walked into his bedroom and found his father's medical kit in the middle of his bed, he shouted for Alfred. His butler came running upstairs and he burst into the room, out of breath.

"Good Lord, sir, what is it?"

"Did you put that there?" Bruce demanded, pointing at the dusty old leather bag that had been in storage ever since his father's death so many years ago.

Alfred stared, bewildered. "No, sir, I did not."

"Then, how did it get there?"

"I have no idea."

Bruce clapped a hand over his forehead in frustration. "Are you sure? Are you sure you weren't cleaning or--"

"Master Wayne, I haven't seen that bag in twenty years."

*****

Bruce was dozing in his chair downstairs a month after the odd occurrences had begun. The doorbell rang and he was upright in an instant. He had been spooked so many times by bumps and creaks in the old house, that being awakened by the sound of honest human contact seemed like a treat. He opened the door.

One of the most handsome men he had ever seen in his life stood before him.

Tall and slender, long wavy blond hair, dark eyes, full lips... He was dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt and a tweed sport jacket. He gave Bruce a frank glance of appraisal and Bruce felt a shiver of excitement when the man's lips pulled back in a sly grin of approval.

"Mr. Wayne? I'm Jack Robbins. I hear you're in need of my services." He stuck out his hand, one eyebrow cocked as though he were suggesting something dirty.

"I'm sorry? Robbins? I don't--I don't know who you are--" Just then Alfred entered the room.

"Ah, Mr. Robbins, so glad you could make it. Please, come in." Alfred gestured for the man to come into the living room, and Jack's grin deepened as he cast a pointed glance at Bruce's crotch as he sauntered by. Bruce caught the scent of something earthy and wild as he passed.

"Alfred!" Bruce hissed. "What the hell's going on?"

"I'm so sorry, Master Wayne. I realize I should have discussed this with you in advance. Mr. Robbins is here to help us."

"Help us? With what?"

"Our ghost, sir."

*****

Three days later, Bruce sat across from Jack at the dining table, watching him unwrap a deck of tarot cards from a velvet cloth. He spread the cloth in front of him and handed the deck to Bruce.

"Shuffle them. Keep going until you feel ready."

Bruce glared at the man he was sure was a charlatan, but did as he was told. He handed back the deck and Jack began laying out the cards in a traditional arrangement. He examined them one by one, casting a frown at Bruce every so often. He made a tsk-ing noise, and Bruce couldn't help but feel unsettled.

"What?" he asked.

Jack shook his head hopelessly. "There's no question about it. You need to get laid."

"That's it, get out."

Jack dissolved into pleased laughter. "Oh, come on, you didn't need a tarot reading to know that, right? What's the matter, does the truth hurt?"

"I would just like to know how your idiotic parlor tricks are supposed to get rid of a ghost--not that such things exist. But, in the realm of your insanity, I would like to think you at least have some sort of logic."

"Oh, I do. And, they won't. This is called 'passing the time.' We're going to stay up until three thirty-two again, remember?"

Bruce contemplated the thought of another three and a half hours in the company of the snarky little con artist and silently cursed Alfred. He had given Bruce his best "I'm doing this for your own good" look, the one that had infuriated Bruce since childhood, and he had reflexively agreed to give the man a chance. That was before he realized that Jack would move in, indefinitely--tarot cards, EMF meter, thermal heat sensor, and all.

"If you think I'm going to spend half the night playing cards with you, you're crazy."

"Fine. I can think of something better." Jack grinned as he stood and took Bruce's hand.

*****

Jack Robbins lay on his back, legs apart for Bruce. He was holding on to the headboard of the bed in the guest bedroom as he was being roughly fucked by the billionaire. He made little grunts and gasps as the deep thrusts came faster and harder. He was watching Bruce--eyes closed, face screwed up in a grimace of concentration as he rocked into the tightness of Jack's warm body, and Jack suddenly whispered, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bruce opened his eyes, panting from the exertion, and looked down at Jack's smiling face. He hesitated, then nodded. Jack took his hands from the headboard and ran a finger up from each corner of Bruce's mouth toward his cheeks, gently tugging his lips into a fake smile. "Then, why aren't you smiling? Seems like if we're doing something fun, I ought to at least get a smile out of you."

Bruce paused in his efforts and broke into a genuine grin. "Ok, ok--you were right, this is fun. But be fair--all you have to do is lay there, I'm doing all the work."

"Happy to trade places with you, Mister Wayne, just say the word!" Jack offered teasingly.

"Maybe some other time. Once you've gotten rid of my ghost."

"Ah, a better incentive than cash, eh?"

"You tell me."

Jack laughed and they went back to their lovemaking.

*****

A week went by. Alfred, Bruce and Jack sat around the kitchen table, hands clasped together, the only light coming from candles placed around the room. Jack was in a trance, and Bruce was watching anxiously as his eyes rolled back and his voice changed to a strange, high-pitched twang.

"You've done well for yourself, Mr. Wayne." The voice held a mocking tone.

Jack had given Bruce a series of questions to ask if he made contact, and he began with the first one.

"Who are you?"

"You... wouldn't know me. Your father--"

Bruce glanced at Alfred, who shrugged.

"You knew my father?"

"Yes."

"How did you know him?"

"Worked for him."

"What do you want?"

_"Justice."_

Bruce took a deep breath. "Justice--for what?"

Jack seemed to be having trouble. His breath came in ragged gasps and he was shaking.

"Justice! What he owes me..."

"What does he owe you?"

"What he did, what he did to me--"

Bruce clasped Jack's hand tighter. He was beginning to fear for the man's well-being, but he had to have an answer.

"Please--just tell me! What is it you want?"

The voice dropped to a hellish growl. "He killed me! He killed me... He--"

Jack suddenly slumped forward, unconscious.

*****

"I don't understand it." Bruce sipped his coffee as he stared out the window. Alfred poured a cup for himself and sat down across from him. Jack walked in the room and headed for the coffee pot as well.

"What don't you understand, boss?" he asked.

"The message. I've been going over it again and again--it just doesn't make sense. My father never purposely killed anyone. I mean, he was a doctor--I'm sure he lost some patients. But, why would a ghost haunt him, looking for justice?"

"Maybe your dad did kill someone. Know anything about that, Alfred?" Jack still looked pale and worn from the trance of the night before.

"It seems impossible. I certainly never heard of such a thing. But... "

"But what?" Bruce asked.

"Your father used to keep a journal. I'll see if I can find it."

Alfred disappeared into the attic to search. Bruce pulled Jack into his arms, hugging him close and speaking into his ear.

"You scared the hell out of me last night."

"It's part of it. I've been talking to ghosts all my life. But this one--I have to admit, I was a little scared myself. I almost--"

Bruce pulled back to look into the dark brown eyes. "What?"

"I almost didn't come out of it." Jack bit his lower lip and shook his head. "Whoever this is, well, 'was'--he's pissed."

"Then, you should stop. Stop making contact. It's too dangerous. I couldn't--I couldn't stand it if something happened to you."

Jack grinned. "Hey, no damn ghost is going to get me down. This is good, actually--if we can figure out what happened, maybe it'll be satisfied and leave."

Bruce's worried frown dissolved and he smiled. He took Jack back into his arms and held him, pressing kisses onto his neck.

"I owe that damn ghost a debt of gratitude--he brought you into my life."

Jack hugged Bruce back. He didn't tell him just how afraid he was.

*****

Alfred came downstairs, dusty from the attic, holding three leather-bound journals. He handed one to Bruce, one to Jack, and settled on the couch with the third. The men silently began reading. Suddenly, Bruce felt a tug as the book was yanked out of his hand. It rose into the air, and dropped, open, to the floor. The three looked at each other, then Bruce bent down and carefully picked it up, keeping its place.

Bruce read to himself as the other two stared at him. After a moment, he began to read aloud:

"October 31st--So glad to be home. This has been one hell of a day.

Martha is getting little Bruce into his costume--his first year for Trick or Treat--he's going as a clown! I am again overcome with gratitude for all the blessings our family shares.

"Nov. 1st--I cannot believe I am writing these words, but I must--I killed a man last night. He was an intruder--I shot him. I tried to save his life, but at 3:32 a.m. I pronounced him dead. The police said I did the right thing--he would surely have harmed my family if I hadn't acted. They said he was psychotic. Turns out he used to work at Wayne Enterprises, but was fired for bad behavior. His name was John Napier. That name will haunt me forever."

Bruce looked up from his reading and headed for his office. The other two followed and stood by as Bruce began research on his computer. He soon had a news article from twenty-five years earlier on the screen, with a picture of the man his father had shot--he had long stringy hair, dark intense eyes, and terrible scars on either side of his mouth.

"Shit--what happened to him?" Jack asked.

"Says he was attacked in his youth by a gang--they gave him a 'Glasgow smile.' He did time in prison for robbery. Upon his release, he was hired by my father's business as part of some social program, but he became violent on the job and was let go. The police think he was determined to get revenge."

"But, why would his ghost suddenly decide to become active at this time, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked.

"I'm now the same age my father was then. And--tonight is Halloween."

*****

Bruce and Jack made love, then wrapped themselves around each other and kissed tenderly as they fell asleep. They both knew something would happen that night, but neither could think of anything to prevent it. In some ways, Bruce was ready, ready to confront this entity at last, to go into battle if necessary. Not that he had a clue as to how. Having Jack there made him feel somewhat better, and as he drifted off, he smiled into the tangle of blond curls, inhaling his scent, thankful for the warmth and energy he had brought into his life.

Hours later, Bruce jolted upright in bed--the high-pitched giggling woke him. He reached for Jack, but he wasn't there. Bruce got up and followed the sound--the bathroom light was on. He pushed the door open and the sight made his stomach roil. Blood streaked the mirror, thick globs dotted the countertop, streams dripped down the edge forming spatters on the floor.

Bruce fell to his knees, screaming.

Jack stood before the mirror, stifling bursts of laughter. He was pulling the last stitch through his cheek, sewing up the gaping "Glasgow smile" he'd inflicted upon himself with the bloody scalpel from Thomas Wayne's medical bag.

It was three thirty-two a.m.


End file.
